The smell of pepperoni and melted cheese had become Alex's new cologne. After three weeks working at Tony's Pizza Palace, the aroma clung to his clothes, his hair, and probably his soul. But every shift meant another twenty-five dollars toward his sniper rifle fund, and that made even the greasiest Friday night rush bearable.
"Rivera! Order up for table six!" Tony Castellano's voice boomed from the kitchen, cutting through the dinner crowd's chatter. The restaurant owner was a mountain of a man with flour-dusted forearms and the kind of work ethic that had built his business from a single pizza oven into Millbrook's most popular family restaurant.
Alex grabbed the steaming plates and navigated through the crowded dining room, his movements efficient from weeks of practice. Waiting tables wasn't glamorous, but it was teaching him skills he hadn't expected—reading people, multitasking under pressure, staying calm when everything went wrong at once.
"Enjoy your meal," he said, setting down the plates with a smile that had become automatic. The family at table six barely acknowledged him, already digging into their food with the single-minded focus of people who'd been waiting too long to eat.
Back at the service station, Alex checked his phone quickly. A text from Jake: *New gear came in at Pete's. You need to see this.*
Another from Maya: *Rodriguez posted the schedule for next month's advanced course. Registration opens Monday.*
Alex's stomach tightened with familiar anxiety. The advanced marksmanship course cost three hundred dollars—money he almost had saved, but not quite. He'd been working every shift Tony would give him, plus weekend hours at Pete's shop that Pete had offered after seeing Alex's dedication to the sport.
"You look like someone stole your lunch money," said Jessica, the other server working the dinner shift. She was a senior at Millbrook High, saving money for college while maintaining a GPA that made Alex feel inadequate about his own academic performance.
"Just thinking about expensive hobbies," Alex said, refilling water glasses with practiced efficiency.
"Let me guess—your military cosplay thing?"
Alex bristled slightly at the dismissive tone, but Jessica wasn't being malicious. Most people didn't understand airsoft, seeing it as either childish games or dangerous obsession. Explaining the tactical complexity and athletic demands rarely changed their minds.
"Something like that," he said.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of orders, complaints, and the controlled chaos that defined Friday night at Tony's. By closing time, Alex's feet ached and his back was sore from carrying heavy trays, but his tip jar held another forty-three dollars—a good night by Tony's standards.
"You're getting better at this," Tony said as Alex helped clean tables and stack chairs. "Customer complaints are down, order accuracy is up. You thinking about making this a career?"
"Just trying to save money for equipment," Alex said, spraying down another table.
"Equipment for what?"
Alex hesitated. Tony was old-school Italian-American, the kind of guy who'd probably served in Vietnam and had strong opinions about kids playing soldier. But there was genuine curiosity in his voice, not judgment.
"I play airsoft. It's like... tactical simulation. Military-style games with replica weapons."
Tony paused in his sweeping, considering this. "You any good at it?"
"Getting better. There's this advanced training course I want to take, but it's expensive."
"How expensive?"
"Three hundred dollars."
Tony whistled low. "That's serious money for a hobby. Must be some course."
"It's taught by a former Marine. Real military tactics, precision shooting, leadership training. The kind of stuff that could..." Alex trailed off, not sure how to explain his growing sense that airsoft was becoming more than just a game.
"Could what?"
"Could prepare me for something important. I don't know what yet, but something."
Tony studied Alex's face with the shrewd assessment of someone who'd built a successful business by reading people accurately.
"Tell you what," he said finally. "You keep working like you have been, pick up some extra shifts next week, and I'll throw in a bonus when you hit your savings goal. Call it an investment in a good employee's future."
Alex felt a surge of gratitude that caught him off guard. "Mr. Castellano, you don't have to—"
"Tony. And yeah, I do. Kid who works this hard for something he believes in deserves support. Just promise me you'll use whatever you learn for good, not stupid."
"I promise."
Saturday morning found Alex at Pete's shop, helping reorganize inventory while absorbing every piece of airsoft knowledge Pete was willing to share. The work was different from the restaurant—quieter, more technical, focused on understanding equipment rather than managing people.
"Hand me that box of hop-up buckings," Pete said from behind the counter where he was rebuilding a customer's rifle. "And tell me about this advanced course you're so fired up about."
Alex had mentioned Rodriguez's training in passing, but Pete's interest seemed more than casual. As Alex described the exercises, the precision shooting, the tactical complexity, Pete nodded with the understanding of someone who'd seen real military training.
"Rodriguez is good people," Pete said finally. "Served three tours in Afghanistan, came home with more medals than he likes to talk about. If he's offering to train you personally, that's not something to take lightly."
"You know him?"
"We've crossed paths. Military community's smaller than you'd think, especially around here. Rodriguez doesn't waste time on kids who aren't serious about learning."
Pete finished reassembling the rifle and set it aside, then turned his full attention to Alex. "Question is, what are you planning to do with all this training? Airsoft's a great sport, but Rodriguez teaches real skills. Skills that have applications beyond weekend games."
It was the same question his mom had asked, the same uncertainty that kept nagging at Alex. He was working toward something, but he wasn't entirely sure what.
"I don't know yet," Alex admitted. "But I figure learning is never wasted, right? Maybe I'll compete seriously, maybe I'll consider military service after high school, maybe it's just about becoming the best version of myself."
Pete's smile suggested he approved of the honesty. "Fair answer. Just remember—the skills Rodriguez teaches, they change how you see the world. Once you start thinking tactically, really understanding how violence works, you can't go back to being a regular civilian. Make sure that's a change you want."
The warning stayed with Alex as he finished his shift and headed home. Was he ready for that kind of transformation? Did he want to become someone who saw threats and opportunities where others saw normal situations?
His phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: *Emergency team meeting tonight. Big news.*
The team meeting was held at Jake's house, in a basement that had been converted into an airsoft workshop. Rifles in various states of modification lined the walls, and the air smelled of gun oil and electronic components. The core members of Bravo Company were all present—Marcus, Maya, Jake, Sarah, and David, plus two newer players who'd been gradually integrated into the group.
"Alright, listen up," Marcus said once everyone had settled into the mismatched chairs and couches that furnished the space. "I got a call from the organizers of the Eastern Regional Championship. They're offering our team a direct invitation to compete."
The room erupted in excited chatter. The Eastern Regional was one of the biggest airsoft competitions on the East Coast, drawing teams from a dozen states for three days of intensive scenario games and tactical challenges.
"That's huge," Maya said, her usual composure cracking slightly. "Teams spend years trying to qualify for Regional."
"Why are they inviting us?" Sarah asked. "We're good, but we're not that good."
Marcus grinned. "Apparently, word's gotten around about some of our recent performances. Plus, they had a last-minute cancellation and needed a team with the right skill mix. We fit their requirements."
"What are the requirements?" Alex asked.
"Balanced team composition—designated marksman, support gunner, riflemen, team leader. Plus demonstrated tactical competence and good sportsmanship record." Marcus's expression grew serious. "There's just one problem. The entry fee is fifteen hundred dollars, and the competition is in six weeks."
The excitement in the room deflated slightly. Fifteen hundred dollars split eight ways was still nearly two hundred per person—a significant expense for a group of high school and college students.
"We can fundraise," Jake suggested. "Car washes, bake sales, whatever it takes."
"Six weeks isn't much time," David pointed out. "And we'd need to coordinate training, travel arrangements, equipment upgrades..."
"It's doable," Maya said firmly. "Difficult, but doable. Question is, are we all committed to making it happen?"
Alex felt the familiar flutter of anxiety mixed with excitement. The Regional Championship represented everything he'd been working toward—high-level competition, serious tactical challenges, the chance to test himself against the best players in the region.
It also meant accelerating his timeline significantly. Instead of gradually building his skills and equipment over months, he'd need to be competition-ready in six weeks.
"I'm in," he said without hesitation. "Whatever it takes."
The others nodded agreement, and Marcus began outlining the massive amount of work ahead of them. Training schedules, fundraising plans, equipment lists, travel logistics—it was overwhelming and exhilarating at the same time.
"One more thing," Marcus said as the meeting wound down. "This level of competition is different from anything we've done before. Teams will have professional-grade equipment, years of experience, and training budgets that dwarf ours. We're going to be the underdogs in every match."
"Good," Maya said with a fierce smile. "I like being underestimated."
As Alex walked home through Millbrook's quiet streets, his mind raced with possibilities and challenges. Six weeks to transform from a decent recreational player into someone capable of competing at the regional level. Six weeks to save money, upgrade equipment, and master skills that had taken others years to develop.
It should have felt impossible. Instead, it felt like exactly the kind of challenge he'd been preparing for without knowing it.
His phone rang as he reached his front door. Jake's name appeared on the screen.
"Hey, what's up?"
"I've been thinking about your equipment situation," Jake said without preamble. "For Regional, you're going to need more than a basic rifle. The precision shooting challenges alone will require something with serious accuracy potential."
Alex's heart sank. He'd been hoping his Combat Machine would be sufficient, at least for his first major competition.
"How much more are we talking about?"
"For a rifle that can compete at Regional level? Minimum five hundred, probably closer to eight hundred for something really competitive."
The number hit Alex like a physical blow. Even with Tony's promised bonus and his savings from both jobs, eight hundred dollars was far beyond his reach in six weeks.
"There might be another option," Jake continued. "Pete mentioned he's got a customer who's looking to sell a precision rifle setup. High-end stuff, barely used. Owner's moving overseas and needs to liquidate quickly."
"How much?"
"Four hundred, including scope and accessories. Still expensive, but manageable if you can swing it."
Alex did quick mental math. With his current savings, Tony's bonus, and six weeks of intensive work, four hundred dollars was just barely possible. It would mean working every available shift, giving up any social activities, and living on ramen noodles, but it was achievable.
"Set up a meeting," Alex said. "I want to see it."
"You sure? That's a lot of money for someone who's been playing for less than two months."
"I'm sure. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."
After hanging up, Alex sat on his front steps and stared up at the stars barely visible through Millbrook's light pollution. Six weeks ago, he'd been a lonely kid with no friends and no purpose. Now he was planning to compete in a regional championship, working two jobs to fund his equipment, and training with a former Marine who saw potential in him.
The transformation was so complete it felt like someone else's life.
His mom appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of his phone conversation.
"Everything okay, mijo?"
"Yeah. Actually, better than okay. My team got invited to compete in a major tournament."
"That's wonderful! When?"
"Six weeks. It's going to require a lot of preparation, extra work hours, probably some late nights training."
His mom studied his face in the porch light, seeing the determination there, the sense of purpose that had been missing for so long.
"What do you need from me?"
The simple question, offered without conditions or judgment, nearly brought tears to Alex's eyes. After months of feeling like a burden, like someone whose problems were just another stress in his mom's already difficult life, her unconditional support meant everything.
"Just understanding if I'm not around much for the next few weeks. This is important to me."
"Then it's important to me too. Go show them what Rivera determination looks like."
As Alex headed inside to start planning his intensive six-week preparation schedule, he felt the familiar surge of excitement that had become his constant companion since discovering airsoft. But underneath it was something new—a quiet confidence that came from knowing he had people who believed in him, goals worth working toward, and the skills to achieve them.
The next six weeks would test everything he'd learned about dedication, teamwork, and pushing beyond his perceived limitations.
He couldn't wait to get started.